Terror At Dawn

TEN

Smith, Williams discovered, was a woman of meticulous habits. Indeed, everything about her was meticulous — her uniform, her hair, and even the way she ate. He felt like a big, bumbling oaf next to her, his own massive hands clumsy as he watched her delicate ones pick a few remaining grapes out of her fruit salad. Even her daily routine on board the ship was orderly. When he’d found out that she always ate lunch late, he made a point of being there just a few minutes before her whenever he could. At first, he tried to tell himself that she would just think he was as well organized as she was, but he soon realized that she was on to him.

Not that she seemed to mind. The experience they had in common of being on different ends of the fire had formed a bond between them. More and more, he found himself admiring her for how she’d reacted, what she had done, and the determination she brought to her new duties inside the engineering department. Not that he understood everything she talked about. A lot of the mechanical stuff was over his head. Still, she seemed to enjoy explaining the intricacies of pumps and engines to him, and never made him feel stupid.

For his own part, he found she knew surprisingly little about aircraft, and he was delighted to share his passion for aviation and his growing technical expertise with her. She never seemed to be bored, although he could tell she failed to understand his fascination with flying.

“Maybe someday I’ll go to OCS and be a pilot,” he said, watching her as he did so. “Wouldn’t that be something?” It was a dream he often entertained, but had not shared with anyone. Aspiring to being an officer was like being the smart kid in high school — you took too much flack from everyone. The fact that he even cared what other people said about him bothered him. He had a feeling it would never bother her.

“I’ve thought the same thing,” she said, precisely spearing a grape in the middle. “Not flying, of course.” A dreamy look stole over her face. “I want to be like Captain Bethlehem over on Jeff. Maybe command an aircraft carrier.”

“Captain Bethlehem is an aviator,” he pointed out. “You have to be to command an aircraft carrier.”

Her eyes widened slightly at that, and he realized she had not known it. “A destroyer, then,” she said calmly. “A ship — I don’t care what kind. Any kind.”

“The other ships are just our escorts.”

She glared at him. “Escorts that the carrier can’t be deployed without. Besides, I think it’d be neat, being on a smaller ship. In here, you might as well be working in an office building. I still get lost when I have to go somewhere new.”

“I know what you mean.” They chowed down in silence for several minutes. Williams went over his plan again. “Hey, are you going to the movie tonight?” he asked, his voice determinedly casual.

“Maybe. What is it? One of those slasher films again?”

“No. Harry Potter. I saw it a long time ago but it was pretty good.”

“Oh, me, too! I love that movie.” A smile spread across her face, then turned into a frown. “Except I have a mid-watch. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll be dragging.”

“You can sleep when you’re dead,” he said, repeating what a chief had told him a few weeks ago when he yawned in his presence. That startled her, and he continued. “Meet me down here at nineteen hundred. I’ll even buy you a Coke. And we could get some popcorn out of the vending machine.”

She stared him for a moment, an odd expression on her face. “You wouldn’t be asking me out on a date, would you? Because you know that’s not allowed on the ship.”

He flushed. “No, of course not. We’re friends, right?”

She didn’t answer, just continued to stare at him. Finally, when he was starting to feel like a complete idiot, she said, “Sure. Only make it a little before seven, OK? I hate to stand in line.”

The two Magruders waited in an office down the hallway from the Oval Office. Even though they’d both been here countless times, Tombstone always felt a stunning sense of humility at being summoned by the President. No matter that some individuals who had inhabited the historic building had shown themselves to be unworthy of the highest office in the land. No matter that party politics was never far from anyone’s mind. This was still the White House, the embodiment of every dream and vision of America, the seat of power in the most powerful nation in the world. To be a part of those decisions, to walk these halls and advise the President, remained a rare honor for both of them.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the Chief of Staff said as he stepped into the office. “The President would like to see you now.” No apology for the two-hour wait was tendered and none was expected. The Magruders stood and followed him down the hall. Ahead of them, they saw a lean figure hurrying away. “Senator Hamlin,” the COS confided. “The President will explain.”

The President stood and walked around the desk to meet them in the middle of the room. “Thank you for coming.” He motioned them to a comfortable seating arrangement away from the desk. A steward silently set a tray of coffee before them, then left, closing the door behind him. The Secret Service agents seemed to fade into the background.

“I have a serious problem,” the President began, “one I hope you can help me solve.” He outlined the events in Bull Run, pain in his voice as he mentioned the Smart children. “It’s a major tragedy, one that should never have happened.” The Magruders, still absorbing the details, murmured their agreements.

“My problem,” the President continued, “is that I’m not sure what went wrong. You’d think after the intelligence fiasco surrounding 9/11, we’d have sorted the information flow out. Homeland Security Defense was supposed to have been the answer, but I don’t think it’s working. Not yet, anyway. The CIA and the FBI…” He paused, studying their faces for a moment, then nodded, evidently pleased by what he saw there. “No. I don’t have to tell you about intelligence and territoriality, do I? Neither of those esteemed agencies has particularly liked joining a new team. I won’t say that they’re being actively obstructive — I’d have their asses if I could prove it — but I do think that’s part of the problem. Selective intelligence sharing — and it’s not working.”

“Fire both agency heads and start over,” the senior Magruder said bluntly.

“I wish it were that easy. But then I’m left with new leadership awaiting Senate confirmation, and I can’t have that right now.”

“Why not now?” Tombstone asked.

“The militias,” the President answered. “Something like this happens and they go on full alert. We show any weakness right now and we’re inviting another Wounded Knee or Waco.”

“Do you have any evidence that they’re planning something?”

“Enough to worry me,” the President answered. “Which brings me to the point. In the long run, HSD is going to be the answer. Jeremiah Horton is a decent fellow — he’ll do the right thing. But something like this, integrating forces that aren’t used to working together — well, frankly, the military has more experience at it than the civilian agencies do. That’s where you come in.”

“How?” Tombstone asked.

The President sighed. “This is a new war, Tombstone. We’re used to law-enforcement activities inside the U.S., not war. Everything is going to have to change — everything. Including posse commitatus.”

“Wow,” the senior Magruder said, abruptly setting down his coffee mug. “That’s a big step.”

“No kidding,” the President answered. “The concept of using military forces for law enforcement inside the U.S. is strictly prohibited. And I’m not going to get the law changed without proving that it’s the right thing to do. So, I’m going to back-door a demonstration. I’m going to use your civilian company as a coordinator, and I’m going to ask you to draft contingency plans for a multiforce mission using both civilian law-enforcement and military assets. Your mission is to be prepared to put down any militia actions taken in response to this tragedy. You have my full authority and the support of the entire government as needed.”

Both Magruders were silent for a moment, absorbing the radical idea. Then Tombstone asked, “Is there any precedent at all for this?”

The President shook his head. “You know the old saying. It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission. If the militias are up to something and you do stop it, then there’ll be precedent.”

“And if we don’t?”

The President’s face was cold. “Then there’s always impeachment. And frankly, gentlemen, if that’s what it takes to get us through this, I’m prepared to risk it.”

For the next few hours, Williams checked his watch every five minutes, wondering why time was moving so slowly. She always got to the chow line five minutes early — did that means she wanted to be five minutes early for the movie? Or earlier than that so they could make sure they got some popcorn? Finally, not wanting to leave it to chance, he slipped out and bought a box of microwavable popcorn at the ship store. Just in case she wanted more than one pack. Or in case there was another movie she wanted to see.

His aircraft was coming back from a routine surveillance patrol, and he had to be on deck after it landed, so he missed seeing her at the evening meal. He hurried through the post-flight checklist, made sure the bird was secure and all tie-downs were in place, then rushed down six decks to the vending machine. There was already a long line there.

He heard her call his name, and spotted her near the entrance to the galley. She held up two sodas. He slipped out of line to join her. He produced the popcorn.

She looked happy. “It looks like we’re set.” She led the way to the microwave, and they waited behind three other people to use it.

Finally, they were set. Again, he let her lead the way, and she selected a table about three quarters of the way back from the screen along a bulkhead. He slipped into the seat next to hers. The noise level in the galley was deafening, but abruptly died down as the lights dimmed and opening music started. “Just in time,” she whispered, grabbing a handful of popcorn out of the bag.

She just looks like a kid. For some reason, he found that particularly appealing. Her gaze was fixed on the screen, her lips slightly parted and moist, spellbound by the opening credits. He helped himself to some popcorn, and over the next two hours, found that he was watching her as much as the movie. And he was quite certain which one he enjoyed more.

Lance Corporal Barry Griffin was barely conscious of his surroundings. Sometimes he was on field exercises in Alaska, because that was the last time he remembered being cold, so very cold. Other times, he knew he was on the ship, especially when the smell of food woke him. He came to recognize the few faces he saw — the corpsman, Evans, who he dimly remembered from the galley, one of the nurses. The doctors stayed so briefly and were so heavily masked that he never formed a clear picture of their faces.

A fever, that’s what it was, he finally realized. That was the reason for the alternating hot and cold spells, the moments when it seemed certain he would suffocate in the overwhelming heat, those moments followed immediately by a bone-chilling sweat as he threw back the blankets. At one point he was caught in seaweed near the ocean floor, a recurrent dream during his dive training. He reached down for his knife, but it hadn’t been where it was supposed to be, strapped on his leg. He jerked hard enough that the treacherous vegetation let loose of him, and he floated up to the surface on a wave of morphine. The remnants of the seaweed ran down his arm, and he was dimly aware of white shapes moving around him. Fish? Or other divers? But why were they in white? The prick of the IV needle being reinserted in his arm went unnoticed. Later, when the morphine wore off, he woke in pain to discover his arms tied to the railings of his bed at the wrist and elbow.

“You were jerking around and pulled out your IV,” the corpsman said, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. “Standard procedure, just routine.”

“Man, I feel like shit,” Griffin murmured, exhausted by the tremendous effort to speak.

“You’ve got the flu or something,” the corpsman said quietly. “But they’re getting it under control.”

“The flu? Man, I feel like I’m dying.” He drifted back off into an unconsciousness that was not quite sleep.

The corpsman gazed down at him steadily, both pity and anger in his eyes. It wasn’t the jarhead’s fault, not really. He hadn’t meant to contract a virus while ashore. If anybody was really at fault, it was the first sergeant, the guy who told Griffin to take off his clothes and shower down. They should’ve left their gear on until they got back to a safe area to become decontaminated, but the first sergeant had been so freaked by the possibility of bio weapons, he’d ignored his training and obeyed the compulsion to wash.

But maybe they would have been exposed anyway, even without that. There was no way to tell. It sure didn’t make any sense to be pissed at the guy who was sick.

Yeah, you do feel like you’re dying. That’s because you are, buddy. They’re not saying it but I can tell — you’re getting supportive measures, some antibiotics — but it’s not working. The fever’s getting worse, and you’re bleeding internally. Those red spots under your arm — they told me it was a bruise. Fat chance — like I believe that. It’s petechia, subcutaneous bleeding you get when your platelets are crashing. Sooner or later, unless they can get a handle on this, you start bleeding and you don’t stop. There are worse ways to go. I guess.

Over the last twenty-four hours, the fever had progressed rapidly. Nothing the doctors tried seemed to have any effect. Late-generation antibiotics were pumping full-steam into his system via three IVs, along with fluids to replace the lost blood and keep his blood pressure up. So far, they had been able to keep pace, but from what the corpsman could tell, the situation was getting worse. Unless he turned a corner soon, Griffin wasn’t going to make it.

But I’m going to make it. Hell, I’m not sick and we’re past the incubation period. No cramps, no headache — nothing. No fever. My blood counts look fine — did they really think I wouldn’t read the chart that they leave in here?

Nevertheless, he and the first sergeant remained in isolation, with the rest of the men who’d been briefly exposed in the galley kept in a separate compartment. The first sergeant wasn’t saying much, but the corpsman could see he was terrified. It was one thing to have an enemy you could reach out and touch, something you could train to defeat with weapons or superior physical force. It was another thing entirely to have something you couldn’t even see kill you. Marines were among the worse patients anyway, but the first sergeant was too scared to cause any problems.

“How you feeling?” the corpsman asked. “You look OK.”

“I’m fine.” The first sergeant didn’t bother to asking how he was, but the corpsman let it slide.

“If you were going to get sick it would have happened by now,” the corpsman said, repeating what he had been saying for the last six hours. The first sergeant would never admit it, but the corpsman thought he took some comfort in the reassurances. “It hit him less than six hours after you guys came back. It’s been six times that. This is just a safety precaution.”

The first sergeant pointed at Griffin. “Safety precaution, with us stuck in here with with him?”

That was the one point the corpsman hadn’t been able to figure out, either. If they really thought Griffin might have some sort of plaguelike disease, why would they leave anyone in the same room with him? There was only two conclusions: Either they thought what Griffin had was not contagious, or it was so serious that they were pretty sure neither the first sergeant or the corpsman would leave the isolation room alive.

The corpsman heard a small squeak, and turned around to see Griffin in a full-scale grand-mal seizure. His bed bucked violently as his massive body slammed against it, contracted into a sitting position, then slammed down again. One elbow restraint broke, then the wristband on the same arm. The IV popped loose, spewing a thin stream of liquid on the deck. Blood down ran down Griffin’s arm. “Hold him down,” the corpsman said, and darted to the head of the bed, trying to keep Griffin from striking his head against the bed railing.

“Hell, no,” the first sergeant snapped. “Don’t you ever learn? That’s what landed you a bed in here in the first place.”

Finally, the convulsions subsided. Griffin lay limp and barely breathng on the sweat-stained sheets. The interior of the air-locked doors opened, and a doctor came in, hastily garbed.

Griffin’s breathing took on an odd rhythm, and the corpsman felt his heart sink. Agonal breathing — the last stage before death. He glanced across at the doctor, and saw pity and understanding in her eyes. She shook her head solemnly.

Thirty minutes later, it was all over. Griffin took a long, shuddering breath, then simply stopped. The corpsman folded his hands peacefully on his chest.

The doctor said, “We’ll try to move him as soon as we can. There are precautions we have to take. You understand.”

“Yes, ma’am.” She turned to look at the first sergeant. “If you were going to get sick, you would’ve done so by now. I’m going to move you to separate rooms, probably keep you in quarantine for another forty-eight hours. If you’re showing no signs or symptoms after that, I’ll consider releasing you.” The first sergeant nodded his understanding, not looking at her, cowering in the corner.

The doctor turned to leave, then caught sight of the corpsman’s hand. She grabbed his elbow, pulled him over to the sink, and dumped a bottle of hydrogen peroxide over his hand. He stared down, aghast, at the spatter of blood from the IV on his skin. “It’s probably not transmitted by blood, whatever it is,” she said.

He nodded, not believing her. Inhalation anthrax — okay, that’s one that’s not transmitted by contact. He tried to think of other examples, but his mind kept summoning up lists of diseases that were transmitted by blood. HIV, Ebola, the plague — just about anything. She was scrubbing his hand now with a small brush, scrubbing him as thoroughly as she would for surgery. When she finally finished, she rinsed his skin once again with hydrogen peroxide.

It’s not transmitted by blood. It can’t be. He stared after her as she left, hopeless.